Part 7 — The Dog That Bit Back
Three days later, the newspaper came out.
“GIRL RISKS LIFE TO PROTECT ‘DANGEROUS’ DOG”
Local janitor says: ‘She saved him as much as he saved her’
There was a grainy photo—taken outside the vet clinic—of Nina Claire Whitaker with her hand resting on the head of a scarred, groggy Brave. The article painted her as a troubled girl with a stutter and a lot of heart. It said “the Whitaker family could not be reached for comment,” which really meant no one had tried very hard.
But the part that mattered came in the last few lines:
“Mr. Landry, a longtime janitor at Chenoa Elementary, has filed to become the official guardian of the injured dog, stating: ‘He has a home now. And so does she.’”
The hearing was set for Monday.
A folding table in the basement of Town Hall. A clerk with reading glasses on a chain. An officer from animal control. Mr. Landry in his best shirt—pressed and smelling faintly of lemon.
And Nina, sitting beside him, holding Brave’s leash like a lifeline.
The bandages were off now. His leg was stiff but healing. His coat still patchy, but cleaner. He sat calmly beside her, tail thumping once every few minutes when she whispered to him.
“Full name?” the clerk asked.
“Brave,” Nina said.
“Dog’s name, I mean.”
“Brave,” she repeated.
The officer from animal control cleared his throat. “The Marlow incident is still on record. He was violent—two boys injured.”
Nina’s chin rose.
“They lit f-firecrackers. Threw rocks. Tied things to his tail.”
“You didn’t see it,” the officer said.
“I didn’t need to.”
The room went still.
Mr. Landry leaned forward. “What matters now is who he is with her.”
Brave rested his chin on Nina’s shoe like he understood every word.
The clerk tapped her pen. “I read the vet’s statement. No aggression during intake. No bite history confirmed. And this girl seems to be the only one he trusts.”
“She’s ten years old,” the officer said.
“Yes,” said Mr. Landry. “Ten years old, and already better at mercy than most grown men.”
The room held its breath.
The clerk looked at Brave. At Nina. At the scar on his muzzle. At the bandana still tied around his neck like a badge.
“I’ll approve temporary placement,” she said. “Six months. You’ll need to check in with a local vet and complete a training program.”
Nina’s voice trembled as she whispered, “T-thank you.”
The clerk looked at her—really looked. “He seems brave. But so do you.
The news spread fast.
Mallory tried to act unimpressed.
“She’s just lucky,” she said in the lunchroom. “That mutt could’ve killed someone.”
But others didn’t see it that way.
Kids who had never spoken to Nina now held the door open for her. One girl—Savannah, from the reading group—told her she liked the painting of Brave in the hallway.
“His ears look like mine when I get scared,” she said, then blushed.
Nina didn’t answer right away. But when she did, her voice was strong.
“They’re b-beautiful ears.”
Mr. Landry helped them settle in.
Built a doghouse in his backyard with a slanted roof and a wind chime above the door.
“Sound keeps away raccoons,” he said.
“Brave is the sound,” Nina answered.
Brave liked to sleep with his head on her lap while she did homework on the porch. Sometimes he twitched in his dreams, legs kicking like he was chasing something far away. But when she’d stroke behind his ears, he’d settle, sighing like the earth had finally stopped shaking.
They walked together every morning before school.
Down Sycamore Avenue. Past the store with the trophies. Past the kids who once stared, but now only nodded.
She wore the same shoes.
Still ripped.
But now, she wore them like armor.
Brave wore his bandana.
And they wore each other’s scars like stories told in silence.
One Sunday, Nina sat beside Mr. Landry at the diner. Brave curled under the booth, tail occasionally thumping against the floor.
“Why’d you help me?” she asked.
Mr. Landry sipped his coffee. “You didn’t need help.”
“I d-did.”
He looked at her, eyes kind but firm. “No, sweetheart. You needed someone who saw you. That’s different.”
Brave let out a soft huff, as if agreeing.
Nina reached down, scratched behind his ears.
“Th-thank you.”
Mr. Landry nodded. “Thank him. He’s the one who bit back. And didn’t run.”
Nina smiled.
“I th-think we b-both did.”
Part 8 — The Dog That Bit Back
By June, the lilacs in Chenoa had bloomed and withered, and summer crept in like a tired old man—slow, warm, familiar.
Brave’s limp was barely noticeable now. His coat, once bristled with dirt and shame, had grown in glossy and full. You could still see the scars if you looked close—one on his shoulder, another along his side—but they didn’t tell the whole story anymore.
Neither did Nina Claire Whitaker’s stutter.
She still had it. It didn’t disappear like some magic trick. But something had changed. The pauses weren’t full of fear anymore. They were just spaces between words—like stepping stones, not sinkholes.
And people waited for her to finish.
Because when she spoke, they listened.
The first day of summer break, she and Brave walked all the way to the edge of the train yard again. Not because they had to—but because they needed to see it. The place where hiding turned into hope.
She stood beside the railcar where they used to sleep, now blanketed in ivy and birdsong.
Brave sniffed around the foundation, tail raised. He didn’t flinch anymore when the wind rustled the leaves. He didn’t scan the shadows like he used to.
He’d learned peace. Or at least something close.
“I was so s-scared here,” Nina whispered, crouching beside him.
Brave pressed his head into her arm.
“But you stayed.”
His eyes blinked slow.
“You s-saved me before I even knew I n-n-needed saving.”
They sat there until the sun began to drop behind the silos, casting long golden stripes across the ground.
Before they left, Nina tucked something beneath the railcar frame.
A folded piece of notebook paper.
Inside it, a simple line in shaky, careful print:
“If you’re hiding, I hope you find someone brave, too.”
The next week, Nina and Mr. Landry visited the school for the summer book fair.
Brave came, too—on a leash, ears perked, bandana still tied like a knight’s banner.
The librarian, Mrs. Delaney, gasped when she saw him.
“Oh my word… he’s gorgeous.”
“He w-was always g-gorgeous,” Nina said softly.
Brave wagged once.
Kids surrounded him—some shy, some bold. A few reached out to pet him. Brave held still, watching Nina the whole time.
“You sure he’s okay with this?” Mr. Landry asked.
“Yes,” she said. “He chooses.”
That was Brave’s power now—he chose who got close. And he trusted her to speak for him when he couldn’t.
“He’s like a b-book,” Nina said once, when Savannah asked what he was thinking. “Y-you just have to r-read him right.”
Savannah smiled. “Then I think he’s saying you’re his favorite chapter.”
Not everything changed.
Mallory Dent still sneered now and then in the grocery store aisles.
But she crossed the street when Brave was with Nina.
Kimmy Voss muttered “weirdo” one time under her breath in line at the movie rental store.
But her voice didn’t carry like it used to.
Because people remembered now.
They remembered the dog that waited. The girl who didn’t run. The night with the flashlights and the scream that cracked something open in everyone.
And when you’ve watched a ten-year-old shield a wounded stray with nothing but her body and a trembling voice—
You don’t laugh at her anymore.
You wonder what gave her that kind of strength.
And maybe—if you’re quiet enough—you learn from it.
Mr. Landry built a fence.
Not to keep Brave in.
But to show he belonged.
He even made a sign for the gate.
Hand-carved, letters burned into cedar:
“Brave’s Yard. All are safe here.”
And under it, in smaller print:
“We don’t forget where we came from. But we don’t stay there either.”
Nina helped stain it. Her fingers smelled like wood oil and sun for days.
She liked it.
It reminded her of her dad’s old shed before he left.
But unlike him, Brave had stayed.
And Mr. Landry?
He hadn’t gone anywhere.
Sometimes, the people who save you aren’t loud about it.
They just show up.
Again and again.
Like a porch light left on.
Like an old song you forgot you knew the words to.
That night, as cicadas sang from the trees and Brave curled at the foot of her bed—yes, her bed, in the spare room that wasn’t spare anymore—Nina wrote a letter in her journal.
She didn’t plan to send it.
But she wrote it anyway.
Dear Daddy,
I found someone brave.
Or maybe he found me.
He doesn’t care that I talk slow.
He just listens.He got hurt. A lot.
But he still loves soft.I want to be like that.
I want to be brave, too.
I think I am.
Love,
Nina
She closed the notebook.
Turned off the lamp.
And in the dark, Brave let out a deep, contented sigh.
The kind of sound that said:
You’re safe now.
We both are.